


Deathfic 1899

by Haldane



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Comedy, Crack, I Don't Even Know, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death.  Fic.  1899.   What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deathfic 1899

The year was 1889. The date was the 27th of December. The weather was cold and clear, the snow new-fallen, and all was well with the world. Even the criminals seemed to have taken the holiday season off. Sherlock Holmes put up with the lack of interesting cases with his usual amount of good-humour and tolerance, that is, none at all.

He had been quite pleased when Peterson, a commissionaire and friend to Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street, had come by with an odd story involving a drunkard, a gang of ruffians, a goose, and a hat. Holmes kept the hat so that he could while away an hour or so studying it, but sent off the goose with Peterson to get the dead, and somewhat worse for wear, bird out of his quarters.

It turned out to be the most tragic mistake he ever made. 

======

The wild pounding on the outside door was the first sign of trouble. Holmes perked up a bit, hoping for a distraught client, but instead the screaming and yelling was in the downstairs hall. He opened the door of the sitting room and leaned out over the banister.

There were Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Peterson, the latter sobbing uncontrollably and the former cursing like a fishwife. The fracas only ended when Mrs. Hudson physically threw her neighbour out the door and collapsed on the tiles. Holmes rushed downstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson! What can be the matter?"

"It's Peterson, Will Peterson... he's dead! That lazy hussy killed him! And him the most wonderful man who ever walked the face of the earth!" Mrs. Hudson was too distraught to continue. 

"But... what happened? And why has it upset you so?"

"Didn't you know? I loved him, always, since we grew up in the village together. Why do you think his wife was so unlucky? Six murder attempts, I've made, and all for nothing now. She never cleaned her poultry properly, she never cared about him! There was a giant gemstone in the bird's crop, and he's choked to death on it!" 

Mrs. Hudson broke loose from the grasp of Holmes and ran, still weeping, into the back of the house. It didn't seem appropriate to intrude on her there, so Holmes returned to his sitting room and mused on the odd chances of life.

He was still musing when Watson came by, dropping in for a seasonal visit. Holmes called down for tea, but after a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Hudson had failed to appear.

"I'll go look," said Watson, his usual obliging self. "Something must have held her up. Back in a tick."

But it was a shaking and ashen Watson who returned. "Mrs. Hudson! She's taken an overdose of laudanum, and... she's dead! Oh gods, what am I going to do now?"

"What are *you* going to do? Yes, she was a wonderful housekeeper and landlady, but it's not the end of the world."

"It is for me! Didn't you know? I loved her, always, ever since she took us in when we were in such poverty. Why do you think I kept coming back for meals? You know she couldn't boil water to save her life, but I didn't care! I don't want to keep on living!"

Watson ran from the room, and up the stairs. Holmes was too shocked and puzzled to follow, but the heavy thud from the back lane made it all too clear. That was Watson all over, such a gentleman he'd throw himself off of the back of the house, to avoid disturbing the traffic in Baker Street.

Holmes hardly had time to comprehend the loss of his friend before the door of the room was rudely flung open, and framed in the doorway was his nemesis, Professor Moriarty. His face had a terrible expression, and he uttered the menacing words: "Tell me it's not true!"

"What's not true?"

"About Watson! I had men watching the house, front and back, and one of them just told me..." and here the great intellectual broke down into tears. Holmes had an uncomfortable suspicion about what was coming next.

"You... and Doctor Watson?"

"Yes! Didn't you know? I loved him, always, since he sutured a wound on my arm, with such care and patience. Why do you think I kept trying to get rid of you? You and he had such a close friendship, I could never even get him alone for ten minutes to tell him how I felt!" Moriarty wandered around the room, dazed and unbelieving. By chance his gaze fell on Watson's service revolver, left with his hat and coat on the settee he had arrived.

"Is this... his?" Moriarty asked in a hushed voice, picking up the revolver and caressing it in a slightly disturbing way. "That's it! The solution to all my pain!" Before Holmes could stop him, he lifted the gun to his temple and blew his brains out.

By sheer habit Holmes opened his mouth to call for Mrs. Hudson, then closed it again in dismay. Where was he going to get any help now? His landlady gone, his best friend... The bell rang downstairs, and numbly he went to answer it himself.

"Mycroft! I think I've never been so glad to see you! Listen, I need your help-," the words stopped as Holmes realised that his brother was not listening. In fact, Mycroft pushed straight past him and hurried up the stairs. 

"I'm too late! Damn the traffic! He got away from my surveillance when a barrow overturned! I've been robbed of the only man I could ever love!"

"Mycroft! Think of what you're saying!"

"I don't care anymore! Didn't you know? I loved him, always, since you first deduced his presence in London. Why do you think he kept getting away? I couldn't stand the thought of that free, wild, untamed spirit locked in a stone cell or chained in the dock! I was feeding him information all the time!" The large body was hunched inwards, the cool facade shattered. 

"I want to end it all, but how? You know I haven't got the energy to do anything violent... The river! That's it!"

"You're going to throw yourself in the Thames?"

"No, of course not. Throwing would take too much effort. I'm going to look for a low spot in the parapet and simply fall in. Drowning! I'll kill myself by not swimming!" Holmes tried to restrain his brother, but Mycroft had always been the larger and heavier of the two, and he fought clear and rushed back into his waiting government-issue four-wheeler. 

Holmes scanned the street desperately, but there was no conveyance that would possibly allow him to catch up. Completely at a loss, he went back to sit blankly in his room, ignoring the dead body on the rug. 

It was Lestrade who came to give him the official notice of his brother's death. A mark of kindness on the part of the police force, Holmes assumed, to send somebody known to be closer to him than most. But the assumption was wrong.

"I... I shalln't be coming around with my problems anymore, Holmes. Not now, there's no point in it. They blackballed me at the Diogenes, and I could never afford rooms in Pall Mall, but coming here at least I could always hope I might catch a glimpse of him. And now he's gone..."

"You, and Mycroft," Holmes said, in a tone of flat disbelief.

"Yes! Didn't you know? I loved him, always, since the time he came through our offices to audit the record books. So intelligent, so poised, so well-endowed; everything I never was... Why do you think I kept bringing you my cases, when you made me out to be an idiot every time? Did you think I was some kind of masochist?"

Lestrade grabbed the knife holding the letters to the mantelpiece. "No!" cried Holmes, but in the same move the inspector drove it to the hilt in his heart. "Now at least I can hope to see him on the other side," he murmured, and the light faded from his eyes.

"No!" cried Holmes again, falling to his knees beside Lestrade. "You can't! I love you; I always have, since the very first case we worked on together. You didn't know? Why do you think I kept making you look like an idiot? I was afraid people would guess my secret, so I pretended not to care!" 

Lestrade only answered, "I'm sorry... it was your brother I wanted. I couldn't have returned your love, even if I-" and the voice stopped.

Holmes stood up unsteadily, his entire world in tatters. He had just enough self-control left to douse himself thoroughly in flammable chemicals and strike a match.

"Let's see those idiots at the Yard try to sort *this* one out." was the last thought of the greatest and wisest man England has ever known.


End file.
